


September

by lemonsorbae



Series: Shoe Box Verse [10]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-18 01:18:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2329961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonsorbae/pseuds/lemonsorbae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's autumn!</p>
            </blockquote>





	September

**Author's Note:**

> After this installment there are three more and then this verse is finished! Thanks for reading, you beautiful muffins. Your support has been amazing. Cheers. — Beta’d by [literaryoblivion](http://www.literaryoblivion.tumblr.com) & [stormstiel](http://www.literaryoblivion.tumblr.com).

When Castiel awakens, it’s that time of morning when the sky is still dark, but the sun is just peeking over the horizon, burning a bright orange that cuts through the gray still clinging to the heavens.

It smells like rain, and if the bulbous, dust-colored clouds looming over their little house are anything to go by, they’re about to experience a deluge. Off in the distance a bolt of lightning lights up the morning sky followed by a clap of thunder that vibrates through the walls.

Next to him - on the mattress on the floor they’ve been sleeping in on the weekends for nearly a month now - Dean stirs, his hand reaching across the empty space between them and coming to land on Castiel’s shoulder. He tugs, mumbling, “‘M cold.”

Castiel shifts closer to him, pulling Dean against his bare chest and rubbing a hand through his fiancé’s hair, smiling as Dean’s body goes pliant.

"I think it’s going to rain," Castiel mutters as lightning slices through the sky a second time.

Dean groans, a low sound that rumbles through Castiel’s rib cage. “We’re supposed to go to the orchards today.”

Another round of thunder rolls through the house.

Castiel chuckles. “Maybe tomorrow,” he offers.

"Fucking rain." Dean presses himself more firmly against Castiel, nuzzling his face against Castiel’s throat and working a leg in-between Castiel’s. Despite his earlier declaration of being cold, Dean’s body is warm, and that warmth melts into Castiel’s skin.

A light drizzle starts outside, falling against the roof and hitting their window sills with a gentle pitter patter, the sound constant and soothing. The crisp, fresh smell that rain brings permeates the air almost immediately and mixes with the soapy smell of Dean’s skin left over from their bath the night before.

"You jinxed us," Dean grouses. His voice is still sleep-thick, his pronunciation lazy, and Castiel smiles. Dean’s put-out nature only serves to make him that much more irresistible in Castiel’s book.

"Perhaps I just wanted to stay in bed with you all day," Castiel says then, his arms tightening around Dean’s back. He feels Dean smile against him, small and secret.

"I guess that’s okay."

A silence settles around them, broken only by the sounds of rain outside, and Castiel sighs. If all mornings were this perfect he’d probably never leave his bed again.

 

By early afternoon the rain has stopped, and Dean urges Castiel to ready himself for the day so they can hit the orchards downtown before it starts up again. It’s due to storm off and on all weekend, and Dean expresses his eagerness to take advantage of the storm being off at the moment.

Castiel strips down to nothing and steps into the shower with a roll of his eyes. For someone who hates things like farmer’s markets and co-ops and anything else he considers “tree-hugging hippie-shit,” Dean sure is eager to spend the afternoon picking apples.

"It’s a tradition!" Dean shouts back at him when Castiel states as much.

 

When they arrive at the orchards, the world outside is wet with drops of rain still clinging to the leaves of apple trees and the sound of wet grass squelching beneath their feet. Everything smells earthy and clean, and it enters Castiel’s lungs with a happy fullness that is so inherently fall Castiel can’t help but smile.

Fall is by far his favorite season.

Along with brief instructions on how to navigate the orchards, they’re given red canvas picking baskets that fit over their bodies and rest against their abdomens.

As they roam the rows and rows of apple trees, Castiel reaches out and links his fingers with Dean’s. Dean glances over and smiles and wraps an arm around Castiel’s waist,pressing a kiss to his temple.

"Wanna see who can pick the most?" Dean asks.

"No. I came for a leisurely afternoon, not a race."

Dean’s pace quickens and suddenly he’s a few steps ahead of Castiel. “Ready?”

"I said no, Winchester."

"Set."

Castiel shakes his head when Dean casts a look over his shoulder.

Dean winks at him. “Go!” He bolts to the side, disappearing in the awnings of apple trees, and Castiel is left alone.

He traipses along the trees, tugging apples from their branches and dropping them into his picking basket, waiting for Dean to reappear. He will at some point, this much Castiel knows, he’s just not sure when or where.

Others have gathered in the orchard as well, not many—most of them driven away by the storm—and it’s nice having the sounds of the outdoors; bugs buzzing, and a breeze blowing through the tall grass the only noises around him.

As he turns a corner, a warm hand closes around his wrist, and then, Dean is there, tugging him into the shadows of a particularly bushy tree that rises higher than the rest.

"Gotcha," Dean hisses, pushing Castiel up against the damp bark of the tree and sealing their mouths together.

Dean’s mouth is warm, his tongue heavy against Castiel’s, and Castiel closes his eyes, letting the rest of the world bleed away into white noise as Dean’s hands find Castiel’s hips.

When they pull away, Castiel notices Dean’s basket is fuller than his own. He isn’t the least bit surprised.

"How many do we need?" Castiel asks as he pushes away from the tree and watches Dean raise his arms above his head and pluck a few apples.

Dean shrugs. “Just fill the bags, I guess. We can do a lot with them.”

"Cider?" Castiel asks hopefully. They’re walking alongside each other now, their shoulders and hips brushing against one another’s every now and then.

"Sure, babe."

They stop in front of another tree, one that appears to have been overlooked more than the others, and Dean picks a few apples and drops them in Castiel’s basket.

"What are you doing?"

Dean flashes Castiel a grin. “Helping you catch up,” he explains, “right now it looks like I’m doing all the work and you’re just following me around.”

"I’m being selective," Castiel hedges.

Dean tugs at the straps on Castiel’s chest. “I know.” He pulls Castiel close, their baskets full of apples bumping, like two swollen bellies, and kisses him.

"We’re not going to get anything done if you keep doing that," Castiel quips when Dean’s face is inches away from his. It’s hard to concentrate on anything when Dean’s lips are pressed against his own, and if they want to beat the second wave of the storm rolling in from the East, they best get moving.

"Yeah, yeah," Dean says, "we’re almost done anyway." He grabs Castiel’s hand again and tugs him along. "Let’s go, Mr. Milton."

They leave the orchard with several pounds of apples, Dean whistling happily as the two of them haul their spoils to the Impala.

On the way home, they stop at a grocery store so Dean can pick up a few of the ingredients he needs for apple pie.

Castiel gets bored of looking at all the spices and drab food packaging and meanders off to the art aisle where he finds a rack full of Vincent Van Gogh Paint-by-Numbers. He pulls a couple off the hanger, Still Life with Apples for Dean, and Sunflowers for himself, before returning to Dean where he’s standing in the baking aisle considering sugars.

"What’s that?" Dean asks as Castiel drops the Paint-by-Numbers in the cart.

Castiel offers Dean a wide grin. “An art project,” he responds and then adds, “for you.”

"Babe, you know I’m not good with the paint. We tried that once, remember? My James Dean ended up looking more like Bruce Jenner, pre-corrective surgery."

Castiel shakes his head. “This one will be better. There are instructions and everything.”

Dean shrugs. “If you say so.”

"I do." Castiel pecks Dean on the lips, and Dean pulls a bag of sugar off the shelf.

At home Dean readies the kitchen with the few baking materials they’ve brought with them to the new home. A month ago, when they first became homeowners, the two of them had agreed to start their renovations in the kitchen. Dean wanted it to be the central part of their home, and Castiel agreed.

Where there once stood generic oak cabinets are now beautiful, walnut cabinets that Dean spent over a week making and installing. The wood was a little out of their price range, but the marble counter tops they added shortly after the cabinets was less than they expected, so it all worked out nicely. The flooring is a deep, rich wood, sturdy under their feet, and after it went in, Castiel stared at it on and off for a solid day because it was his floor, a floor he picked out with Dean.

"You wanna help me peel these?" Dean asks. He hefts a crate of apples into his arms and dumps them into the sink that’s filled with water and fruit cleaner.

"I suppose I could help."

"Oh yeah? You suppose so, Mr. Milton? Didn’t your mom ever read you the Little Red Hen when you were a kid?"

Castiel steps up beside Dean, rolling up the sleeves of the Henley he stole from Dean’s duffle bag, and dipping his hands in the water to help clean the apples. “No.”

"I’ll give you the cliff notes version then. Those million dollar hands of yours don’t help out in the kitchen every once in awhile, I don’t share my spoils."

"My hands aren’t million dollar hands, Dean," Castiel counters.

Dean twists himself to peck Castiel on the lips. “They will be someday, babe,” he states.

Dean’s unyielding faith in Castiel has always been a lot to take in, and even now, after over two years of dating, after an engagement and purchasing a home together, Castiel still finds his cheeks heating at the compliment and a worry rising inside of him that he’ll never live up to what Dean sees in him.

They make quick work of cleaning and peeling the apples and while Dean whips up a crust, Castiel cracks open a Schӧfferhofer and digs through the grocery bags until he finds the Paint-By-Numbers.

With the pie finally in the oven some hour or so later, Dean joins Castiel at the bar and surveys the art supplies Castiel has set up.

"This looks complicated," Dean admits, scratching at the back of his neck.

"You never did these as a child, Dean?" Castiel wonders.

“‘Course I did,” Dean corrects as he settles onto a bar stool next to Castiel.

"But, they were all dinosaurs and flowers and shit. I never did one of some famous dead guy’s masterpieces."

"His name was Vincent Van Gogh, but I’m assuming you know that considering you recognize the pieces."

Dean shrugs sheepishly.

"Just follow the instructions, Dean, it really isn’t difficult."

Dean heaves a sigh. “Fine, but no critiquing my work.”

Castiel offers Dean a smile. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he says.

As they work Dean seems to relax into a rhythmic concentration, his shoulders losing their taut nature and falling into a loose, easy position.

The smells of cinnamon and baking apples creep up their noses, making their small kitchen smell like fall, and warmth, and home.When the timer finally beeps, Dean’s got his tongue held between his teeth as he fills in the remaining spaces on his painting.

Castiel smiles to himself as he watches his fiancé delicately brush the cheap, grocery store brush over Life with Apples. Dean’s eyebrows are pulled together in concentration, his fingers moving in deft, sure movements, and when the painting is complete, Dean drops his brush to the countertop and holds it up for both of them to see.

"Not too bad for a carpenter, huh?" he asks, his voice laced with mild pride.

Castiel’s smile deepens, and he shakes his head, “It’s beautiful, Dean. Perfect.”

Dean gives the painting one final glance before he slides out of his chair and moves to the oven, slipping on a pair of oven mitts and pulling the pie from the rack.

Out in the open, the pie smells even better and Castiel’s stomach growls at him angrily, reminding him they haven’t eaten since they stopped for food on their way home from the orchard several hours ago.

"I don’t mean to brag," Dean intones as he arranges the pie on the cooling rack, "but this pie looks damned near perfect."

"It smells wonderful," Castiel offers, watching Dean as he hunches over his own personal masterpiece and observes every flake and crisp.

"Well, in a few minutes we’re going to find out if it tastes wonderful, too."

They forego dinner in exchange for slices of warm apple pie and scoops of vanilla ice cream - one of the few things they actually have in their shiny, new fridge - eating them outside on the back porch as the sky is overtaken by thick, grey storm clouds that have been hiding since that morning.

The pie is wonderful, just as Castiel imagined it would be, and as he and Dean sit next to one another amiably, silently shoveling bits of pie and ice cream into their mouths, Castiel feels like they’re right where they should be.

He tangles his ankles with Dean’s and sets his empty plate off to the side, bits of gooey apple filling and crust clinging to his lips. He smirks at Dean as he watches Castiel brush them off with his tongue.

"You ever get the feeling you’re doing exactly what you’re supposed to be doing?" Dean asks.

Castiel nods, wrapping his arms around Dean’s arm that’s closest to him, and pressing a kiss to the crook of Dean’s neck before resting his chin on the other man’s shoulder.

A silence settles between them again, and they stare out into their backyard, watching the trees swaying in the wind as a roll of thunder sounds off in the distance.

Soon fat drops of rain fall down from the sky, landing in their hair, and sliding down their faces, catching on Castiel’s stubble and causing Dean’s freckles to stand out. They still have time to duck inside before getting completely soaked, but Dean wraps an arm around Castiel’s waist instead. They remain on the porch, letting the water sluice over their shoulders and drip down onto their jeans, seeping through the fabric and chilling their skin.

After a moment Dean guides Castiel’s chin up until their lips are sliding together, wet from the rain, but warm. They kiss until Castiel feels as if his chest will burst, both from the lack of oxygen and the sheer happiness of being herewith Dean, and as they pull away, Dean smiles at him, wide and happy.

"Two years and you still take my breath away," he mutters. If the flush in Dean’s cheeks is anything to go by, it took a lot out of him just to say the few simple words, Dean never being much for anything too sentimental, but whether dragged from Dean’s toes or whispered every day between cooling sheets and beams of sunshine, it still makes Castiel feel warm.

He cups either side of Dean’s face and draws him in again replying, “Me too.”


End file.
